Shrimp Scampi for Your First Love
Mollie Pate
1
In a large pot of salted boiling water, cook linguine according to the package directions until al dente. Drain, reserving ½ cup pasta water, and return to pot.
You are with your first girlfriend. You are eighteen, and madly in love. You spend your evenings writing her lustful poetry and tracing her name into your skin with your finger, tasting each let ter on your lips, speaking it into the fall air. Tonight, your parents are out of town, and you are cooking her dinner.
2.
In a large skillet over medium heat, heat oil. Add shrimp and season with salt and pep per. Cook until shrimp is pink and cooked through, 4 minutes. Remove from skillet and reserve on a plate.
She is sitting in a chair at the kitchen table, watching you. You smile at her from where you stand at the stove, pushing the pale pink shrimp around the skillet with a wooden spoon. You pretend that you are married, that the girl sitting across from you is now your wife, that you will be able to cook her dinner again tomorrow night, and every night after that. She extends her arm to you, and you cross the kitchen floor to come sit in her lap, resting your forehead against her shoulder, breathing in her scent. Baby powder. Roses. Tonight, you are going to steal a bottle of chardonnay from your father’s wine closet and share it with her, and in an hour you will both be drunk and giddy and utterly undone.
3.
Add butter to skillet, then add garlic and red pepper flakes and cook until fragrant, 1 minute. Add tomatoes to skillet and cook until beginning to soften, 3 minutes. Season with salt and pep per. Add wine and cook until mostly reduced, 5 minutes.
You burned the garlic. You turned the heat up too high and stepped away for too long. The noodles are overcooked too, and they stick together in one large, gooey clump. Damnit, Damnit, Damnit, you say, unsure of why you’re so upset. She appears behind you, putting a hand on your shoulder and whispering reassurances into your ear. You never get this kind of time with her. You are undercover, the both of you, terrified of being found out. In this moment, you remember again that you are children on borrowed time.
4.
Add heavy cream, lemon juice, and Parmesan. Let simmer until sauce is thickened, 5 minutes. Add pasta, shrimp, and kale and toss to coat. If sauce is too thick, add additional pasta water.
You divide the meal into two bowls, and she makes her way to the table with you trailing behind her. You watch her as she takes her first bite, and then you do the same. You both chew quietly. It’s good, she says, it’s really good. Silence, then rapturous laughter. You can hardly breathe, and s he is nearly crying. This is perhaps the worst pasta ever made. You throw it all in the garbage and order Chinese food. Tonight, you will sleep in the same bed, tangled up in each other’s limbs, utterly indifferent to the rest of the world and breathing in perfect unison.
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